


A Use for Every Occasion

by Sir_Thopas



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Depression, Kink Meme, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-07-08 00:57:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15919689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Thopas/pseuds/Sir_Thopas
Summary: The M7 models were an experimental line of synths with unique upgrades not found in most. Danse struggles to adjust to this.





	1. Chapter 1

Danse had a routine. 

He got up during the small hours of the morning and trained, not bothering to switch on the lights. Not daring to. Push-ups, crunches, stretches, he kept it up until his body ached and burned and protested every movement, then pushed himself further; he detested this sense of idleness that clung to him. He didn't stop until the first sunbeams broke through the clouds and inched their way across his floor, bringing with them the sleepy sounds of Diamond City as the shopkeepers threw open their doors and the children trundled off to school: the start of a brand new day. 

Danse wiped the sweat from his brow and took up a chair near the window, peeking out through the dirty glass, making sure his face was safely hidden behind the curtain. Marla, the landlady, would bring up his breakfast. For 500 caps a month, Danse had access to a small room in a boarding house, not far from the marketplace, and three hot meals a day. Marla smiled a toothless grin as she set the tray on a small table, her eyes flitting over every corner of the room – and him – as though she could see into all the dark places in-between. "I trust you had a good night?" She asked slyly. "Make lots of friends?" 

He disliked her. She was always talking around things and Danse could never figure out what she wanted. He thought that if Hancock or MacCready were here, they'd know exactly what she was on about it and it just made Danse angrier that he didn't understand. There was an itch in the back of his mind, a howling, paranoid voice that whispered: She knows. But Danse ignored it. He didn't think that was true, and even if it was it had been almost a year since Nate moved him into the city and not once had she mentioned his presence to the Brotherhood or anyone else. "I had a quiet evening last night," Danse said evasively, hoping he'd struck on the right answer. 

Apparently not. Her expression soured and she looked down at him as though he was beneath her. "I'm to remind you that your rent is due in two days." 

"I am aware of it." 

She pressed on, hedging for something. "Your man's not been back in some time." 

Danse felt his hackles rise at the mention of Nate and a surge of protectiveness coursed through him. His heart thudded in his chest, each beat reminding him that his lover was still out there somewhere, on another mission for the Brotherhood and Danse wasn't with him. How could he keep him safe if he wasn't with him? What good was he if he couldn't even do that anymore? "I don't see how that is any of your business." 

She snorted, unimpressed. "Just see to it that the rent is paid in full and on time." 

Danse had nothing to do with the rent. Trapped as he was, he had no way to make money. Nate took care of it, Nate took care of everything these days. Danse could feel his hands shake. Nothing to do, except sit here and stare at the people passing him by. Sometimes he read, tattered books that Nate picked on his travels, with more than a few pages missing. Most of the time, though, he watched the sun crawl across the sky, counting down the minutes. 

He only felt safe once night fell. Diamond City had its own dangers, but it was easier at night with the shadows obscuring his features. He became just another hapless soul. Easy pickings, one would assume and Danse did hope they assumed. He silently dared the muggers and the thieves to try him. He'd welcome it. Anything to feel useful. To feel used. That's what he was built for. It was wasteful, letting a machine go to rot, sitting idle and useless day in and day out in a small bedroom, cordoned off from the rest of the world. 

Eventually, he'd make his way back to the boarding house, fall into bed, hoping he could catch at least a few hours of sleep. If he was lucky, he'd wake to feel Nate's arms wrapped around his chest as he crawled into bed behind him... 

Danse woke suddenly, unsure of what day it was. Not that it mattered. He had no use for calendars these days. He felt something against his back. Nate buried his head into the back of his neck, breathing deeply. "You're overdue, soldier," Danse mumbled into his pillow. 

There was a huff of air as Nate let out a quiet laugh. "I'm pretty sure I outrank you now." 

"What happened?" 

"We were overrun with ferals. Managed to find safe shelter but we were boxed in. Had to wait for reinforcements." 

Ice clawed at his heart and Danse closed his eyes, breathing through it, as a hundred different scenarios played out in his mind. How easily it could have all gone wrong. He should have been there. "I don't like it when you leave and I can't follow." 

"I know." 

Nate pressed a kiss into his neck, soft and feather-light. His lips moved down, gently nipping at his shoulder, before pushing further, moving Danse onto his back so Nate could bury his nose into the hollow of his throat. Danse shifted his legs, letting Nate easily slot between them. Nate pulled himself to his knees, throwing off his shirt and Danse's undergarments, before unbuckling his trousers and pushing them halfway down. He renewed his attack, kissing hungrily against Danse's jaw and lips, his hands trailing lower. 

The scent of oil filled the air. There was pressure as a finger worked its way inside him, and Danse wound his arms around Nate's neck, pulling him forcefully back to his lips. He felt his body stretch and give as Nate added in a second finger, and then a third. But then they were gone, leaving Danse empty and aching, only to be replaced with something larger. Danse forced himself to relax as Nate pressed inside, breath hot and gasping next to his ear. This was something he could do, something useful. Even if he couldn't protect Nate anymore, he could still give him comfort, pleasure. He hoped it was enough. He loved this man so much. 

There was a touch on his cock, a hand slick with oil, and the pleasure crashed into Danse, forcing him out of his tangled thoughts. Nate stroked him in time to his thrusts, driving faster and rougher until the pleasure was bursting beneath his eyelids with every brush against his prostate. Nate's thrusting grew quick and erratic. Danse opened his eyes to watch Nate move above him, his face contorted with bliss as he stilled, coming hard and deep. 

Before Danse could gather his thoughts, Nate pulled out and slithered down his body, grabbing his hips to pull his close. Then there was a mouth on his cock, sucking hard. Danse shouted, reaching up to grab hold of the bed frame as he came. 

In the morning, Marla entered with a sharp knock, just as she always did. There was a pleased smile on her face as she set the tray down. Danse looked up over Nate's shoulder as he slowly roused himself from the bed to sit up, the blanket still tangled around his waist. "It's nice to see you back, sir," she said with a simpering smile. "I'll be in my rooms later this afternoon. I trust you'll stop by to go over this month's payment." With a nod, she showed herself out, a little flounce in her step. 

Nate groaned and scrubbed at his face. "I swear that woman must have been a raider in her youth." 

Danse hummed in agreement as he pulled himself out of bed, grabbing his discarded clothing and tugging them on while Nate did the same. He moved over to the table where two bowls of something like porridge sat waiting for them, as well as a scrap of paper that said "On the house!" in cheerful, loopy letters. 

Nate padded over to take a seat, a small frown marring his handsome face as he reached for the bowl. "We may have a problem." 

Danse's mind pulled into two different directions. Various scenarios flashed through his thoughts, of what could be worrying Nate, how to combat it, what needed to be done. He ignored the voice that whispered, _He's tired of you. He wants someone real, someone human_. 

"Scribe Haylen told me there's a rumor going around that I've been keeping a love nest here in the city." 

Danse let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. "I shouldn't have left the listening post. I'm putting you and this city at risk. That is unacceptable." 

"I wasn't going to let you stay there, alone and without protection or communication. Especially not with Maxson knowing your location. _That_ is a risk I couldn't take." Nate shook his head, rubbing at his forehead. "Look, it's just talk. You know how much gossip goes on in the Prydwen, especially when it involves the higher ups. Nothing is going to happen." He fixed Danse with a stare that still managed to take his breath away. “I love you, you know that, right?” 

Danse swallowed and nodded once. He didn’t look up.


	2. Chapter 2

Nate left soon after. He was still in the city, at his house on Home Plate, but he might as well be halfway across the wasteland for all Danse could see him. Appearances must be maintained. Two days later, Danse spotted him lingering outside of Chem-I-Care. He turned very slowly, his eyes deliberately sliding over Danse’s window before turning to the gate. Danse’s heart dropped. He was leaving again. A thrum of fear shot through him at the suddenness of it all; the Brotherhood must have called him back ahead of schedule, something had happened. 

Danse kept turning it over and over in his mind, replaying every scenario he could think of. He should be there. 

That night he beat two would-be muggers and a man outside Dugout Inn whose idea of romance consisted of stalking women back to their homes within an inch of their lives. 

It was 3 o’clock in the morning when he made it back to his apartment, the bruises on top of his sore muscles stung beautifully as he crawled into bed with a half-smile. He slept for three hours, until he was jolted awake by his own twisting dreams, his hands shaking from the images burned into his brain. He stood outside the bunker with Nate, Maxson standing across from him, knife in hand. But instead of watching himself get down on his knees, it was Nate, and there was a sudden flash as the knife caught the light. 

Danse lurched out of bed, his stomach rolling. He won’t think about it. It didn’t happen. He needed to train. Maybe if he pushed himself hard enough he’ll be too tired to think. 

Night came again. His body was thrumming with unspent energy, he could feel even his teeth itching. His hands won’t stop shaking. He can’t lace up his boots properly, his fingers felt thick and clumsy. They tied themselves in knots and he had to start over. 

There was a quick knock on his door and Danse abandoned his boots for the sidearm in the nightstand. It was nothing like Marla’s sharp rap, and Nate never knocked. Nick Valentine walked in to a gun pointed at his head. “Is this how you greet everyone?” He asked. The adrenaline slowly faded into annoyance and Danse half wanted to shoot him anyway. Nick sent him a wry grin – or the mockery of one – as if he knew exactly what Danse was thinking. 

“What do you want?” 

Nick shut the door and leaned back against it, his arms crossed as he looked down at where Danse sat. “I know it can’t be easy staying cooped up in here,” Nick said, glancing about the gloomy, unadorned room. “I think you deserve a night out. I know a place in Goodneighbor where we can get a drink--” 

"I need to keep a low profile. You don't exactly blend in with the civilians." Danse doesn't look at him. He can't look at him. 

Nick sighed and Danse heard him mumble something just underneath his breath. It sounded a lot like _God help me for trying_. “I had a funny dame walk into my place the other night. Wanted me to help find the man who rescued her from some creep so she could ‘thank him properly’. He was about six feet, two inches, muscles on top of muscles, gotta scar above his left eye...” 

Danse flushed and said nothing. 

“Look,” Nick started again. “I haven’t told Nate what you’ve been up to come nightfall. A man needs to let off steam and, frankly, anyone who tries to pick a fight with you deserves what they get. But you’ve been getting sloppy lately and--” 

Anger thudded hotly through his chest. “You’ve been spying on me, synth?” 

“Making sure no one from the Brotherhood starts nosing around this place, _synth_.” 

Danse couldn’t stop the flinch as the word was thrown back at him and his stomach rolled again. Nick shook his head and stepped out of the room. “You do what you want,” he called back, sounding bone-weary. “But if you need a drink or just to talk...” 

Nick was gone and Danse was alone again. He sat there for a moment, trying to keep his rebellious stomach in check. He would have thought a machine would have better control over its own body. Finally he stood up. He didn’t have the luxury to be lazy. He had to patrol. 

It was about when he was getting punched in the face that Danse conceded that Nick might have been right about him being off his game. 

Danse pulled back, his hand flying to his bloody nose, and eyed the man in front of him. He was a raider and doing a poor job of blending in. Sent here to probe Diamond City’s defenses? Danse pushed the question from his mind when he saw the glint of a knife in his fist. It sliced into his arm, not that it mattered. He was built to take punishment. Before the raider could pull back, Danse grasped his wrist, slinging him forward. As soon as he was range, he grabbed the back of his neck and flung him head first into the green wall. A sickening crack split the air. He let the body drop and vomited beside it. He felt a little bad for that. Even for a raider, it seemed ignoble. But Danse wasn’t in a position to do much about it. He let his head drop and pressed it against the wall. The cool metal did little to soothe the ache that had blossomed behind his eyes. 

Danse pried himself away and shuffled back to his apartment. He collapsed into his bed, hours earlier than he would normally. He didn’t know how long he slept, only that when he next tried to open his eyes he could barely find the strength. Everything felt heavy. His head and his arms and his eyelids. He heaved and someone pushed him onto his side, angling his head with a firm grip on his hair. “Into the bucket,” the voice commanded. A woman. Marla. “Looks like you’ve had a hell of a night. John too rough with you?” 

John? Who was John? Did Marla somehow know that raider? He managed to crack his eyes open and the light nearly blinded him. He groaned. “What?” Danse mumbled, his tongue heavy and furred. 

“Not surprised this happened,” Marla continued, talking more to herself than to Danse. “Bound to get sick sooner or later, what with your work. We had an outbreak of syphilis a few years back.” 

His work? And syphilis was a venereal disease. Suddenly, everything she said came rushing back to him in perfect clarity. Danse forced himself to look at her properly. “You think I’m a prostitute?” 

Marla rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't go putting on airs for me." 

Now that he thought about it, he could see where she got the idea. His nightly walkabouts, the fact that his expenses were paid for by Nate who only came by once the sun fell and was gone in the morning. Still... There hadn't been anyone before Nate and the idea that he could be so easily mistaken for someone who sold their favors didn't sit well with him. He wanted to say something, to come up with some sort of explanation, but he was too tired. He went to sleep instead.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time he woke, Curie leaned over him, pressing one small hand against his abdomen while Nick watched. “Good morning, Monsieur Danse, how are you feeling today?” She asked. 

Danse tried to make his voice work, but the most he could accomplish was a scratchy grunt. 

“You’ve been very sick, do you remember?” 

Danse shook his head, not bothering to try to say anything this time. He closed his eyes and let her words wash over him. 

"What's wrong with him?" That was Nick. Everything was starting to get a little fuzzy again. 

“Influenza. Staying cooped up inside _here_? It was only a matter of time. But influenza does not usually cause vomiting in adults.” Her hand drifted to his forehead. “This is a bad case,” she murmured, before suddenly rounding on Nick. “You should not have waited for me. You should have taken him straight to Dr. Sun!” 

“I’m the infamous synth detective of Diamond City, if I had asked him to look in on someone who’s never been seen here before the gossip would’ve ballooned high enough to reach even that damned Brotherhood airship.” 

“I am sure Dr. Sun would not breach patient confidentiality--” 

“Sorry, Curie, but I’ve shaken down enough doctors to know that’s no longer a thing.” 

Danse ignored their arguing and focused instead on the orders he was given. Sit up, drink this, hold the thermometer under your tongue, lie down. He was good with orders, even if it was a synth who was issuing them. There was something damnably funny about a machine giving orders to a machine. He thought he might have laughed because Curie shot him a worried look. 

He wished Nate was here.

* * *

Curie strode through the mud-covered streets of Diamond City to the Mega Surgery Center. Already this morning she could see a small crowd forming around Dr. Sun and a few makeshift beds shoved underneath the awning. Dr. Sun stood with her back to her, young Sheng Kowalski squirming in a chair while the doctor injected him with something. “Good morning, Dr. Sun, I am in need of supplies.” 

He turned to look at her. His face was covered in a surgical mask that smelled strongly of disinfectant. “How can I help, Dr. Curie?” His voice was perfectly professional and congenial, but she knew he was grinning wildly beneath his mask. Ever since she had asked him which university he had attended, he seemed to enjoy making a mockery of her and her ‘old-world ideals’. Curie forced a smile on her face. 

“I have a patient with influenza. I have a list of supplies I need--” 

Dr. Sun held up a hand. “I’m really sorry, Curie, but I can’t help you.” 

“Money is no issue--” 

“It’s not that. All of my supplies have been... requisitioned by those in the upper stands.” 

“I do not understand what you mean.” 

Dr. Sun gestured to the patients behind him. “Yesterday, ten people came here showing symptoms of the flu. Today, it’s thirty. Do you know what kind of damage an epidemic could do to a place like Diamond City?” 

Curie did know. She looked at the overcrowding, the lack of sanitation, the dirty water. An influenza epidemic would be catastrophic. “My supplies are limited and I’ve been ordered to save what I have for those who could... use it most,” Dr. Sun continued. 

Curie felt her mouth drop as the implication rocked through her. 

“If you want my advice, get out while you can. I’ve seen influenza sweep through here before, and typhus and cholera. Before it’s over, half the city will be empty.” 

Dr. Sun turned away, back to his patients, leaving Curie to stand there in a daze. She had to remind herself that Danse was young and strong and a synth; if anyone had a chance it would him. Oh, but what about all these poor people? Those that lived on a diet of razorgrain bread and dirty water? Her eyes caught sight of a dark head of hair. Nat stood on her box, waving an issue of _Publick Occurrences_ to the uninterested denizens of Diamond City around her. Curie rushed over to her, ignoring the girl’s squawk as she pressed a hand against her forehead. “How are you feeling? Are you alright? Where is your sister?” It didn’t feel like she had a fever. 

Nat wiggled out of her grasp. “I’m fine! And Piper’s with Nate. What’s going on? Why are you acting so weird?” 

Nat didn’t know yet. It would be better not to scare her. “Your sister is worried about you. She wants you to stay with me at Home Plate,” Curie said with a broad smile, hoping it masked the fear that was seeping out of her. She knew the statistics. Children were always the first to die. 

The girl tensed, her fine, small features twisting up for a moment before quickly smoothing over in a way that spoke of many years of practice. “I’ll come by after I’ve finished selling this batch.” 

“No, it would be better if you come now. Leave the paper, Piper will not mind.” 

Nat closed the door to Publick Occurrences and locked everything up before rushing over to grasp Curie’s hand. “Is Piper hurt?” Her voice sounded so small and fearful as clung to her. 

“No, no, do not worry, your sister is fine.” As far as Curie knew, anyway, but she had no doubt that Nate would take very good care of Piper. Curie fished for the key he had given her and bundled her inside the man’s home away from home. “There is plenty of food and water, and some comic books if you get bored. I will return in a few hours. I have a patient that I must see to.” 

“What about school? I have a test tomorrow.” 

Thoughts of Sheng Kowalski raced through her head. “I would like you to just stay here for now. I am sure your teacher will let you make up the test.” 

Once she had made sure Nat was safe and comfortable, Curie ran back to Danse’s apartment. She breathed heavily through her nose as she flew up the stairs, irritated that her new synth body was so easily winded. She had no real concept of exhaustion, or muscle cramps, or any physical ailment when she had been a Miss Nanny. It had all been abstract to her, something that she could spot and diagnose in humans, but impossible for her to really understand. A thought struck her like lightning: _she_ could get sick. 

Curie fished a bandana out of her pocket and wrapped it around her mouth and nose. She opened the door to Danse’s apartment where Nick stood waiting. “Joined a raider gang, did you?” He asked. 

Curie ignored the joke and went immediately to Danse’s side to check his temperature. “Dr. Sun has no supplies available for purchase. He believes we are in the beginning stages of an influenza epidemic.” 

“ _Christ._ ” 

“I sent Nat to stay at Home Plate.” 

“Good. I’ll spend the night with her and leave Danse to you. I’ll come back by to check in on you in the morning.”


	4. Chapter 4

A wail rose up from the depths of the city. There went another one. 

Danse woke to Curie shaking him and ushering him into a coat and hat. His hands were shaking as he turned up the collar, the cold sweat beading down his back made the fabric cling uncomfortably to him. Curie helped cover his face with a scarf and he couldn’t help but notice the gloves she wore and the bandana around her nose and mouth. 

She led him out onto the streets of Diamond City. He nearly flinched as the full force of the sun bore down on top of him. It had been months since he had last ventured out during the day. 

Danse shuffled his feet forward, dizzy with the effort of it. He barely noticed how empty the streets seemed, the signs all flipped to say ‘closed.’ The only ones that were still brave enough to hawk their wares were the robots. When he arrived at the gate, he nearly pivoted on his heel and marched right back to Marla’s flat. Hancock stood waiting for them, leaning oh-so-casually against a wagon with a smug grin plastered across his face. Piper’s little sister sat on the box playing cat’s cradle with another ghoul – one of Hancock’s trigger-happy Neighborhood Watchmen by the sight of the machine gun lying next to him – while Nick Valentine adjusted the yoke strapped across the brahmin’s neck. “Looking a little rough there,” Hancock said. “Not that I would know much about it. Ghouls can’t get the flu.” 

If Danse could concentrate for more than a few seconds at a time, he would have flung something back at him. As it was, his voice was almost as raspy as the ghoul’s, and if he heard him speak there would be only _more_ comments and, honestly, Danse couldn’t think of anything to say. He just wanted to go back to sleep. 

He realized that he should probably ask where they were taking him, but the moment he pulled himself into the wagon he found it hard to keep his eyes open. Curie scrambled up after him, her hand blessedly cool against his cheek. Danse pulled away from the comfort, his hands aching with want of a weapon. The area outside of Diamond City was teeming with violence. He shouldn’t be sitting here. He should be walking, taking point, guiding the wagon to safety wherever they were going. 

The wagon started off with a lurch and Danse rocked with it, his stomach rolling at the sensation. “So, three synths, two ghouls, and a human walk into a bar,” the Watchman said from the box as he guided the brahmin through the broken streets. 

Nick barked out a laugh, but Danse’s stomach did another little flip, though for entirely different reasons. This stranger – this _ghoul_ – knew he was a synth. How many others knew? Somehow the fact that he was ghoul made it so much worse. At least the ghoul was once human, something Danse could never claim to be. 

It took three hours to break free of the ruins of Boston. The wagon was constantly getting caught among the rubble so that the others had to push it free. Curie demanded he stay where he was but Danse refused to sit and wait with Nat. He clamored down each time it happened, even if Nick and Hancock refused to let him actually help. Never mind that Nick looked cobbled together with duct tape and wonderglue, or that Hancock was just a bag of skin and bones wrapped up in an American flag and tricorn hat. 

But the roads were quiet. A place that had once been crawling with super mutants was as still and silent as a graveyard. Other than one of Nate’s provisioners on her way to Hangman’s Alley, the only other person they saw was a man in raider leathers dragging the twisted end of a tire iron behind him. He quickly disappeared when he saw them coming. Danse allowed himself a moment of pride. This was Nate’s doing, Nate and the Minutemen and the Brotherhood of Steel. But mostly Nate, _his_ Nate. 

As the wagon rounded the reservoir, Danse spotted the entrance to Vault 81. He was bustled through, the security guards muttering a curt, “Dr. Forsythe is waiting for you.” Danse kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore the way the lights seared through the thin skin of his lids to fry his retinas. He walked where Curie told him to walk and tried not to stumble. 

A scream echoed off the walls. “FERALS!” 

Danse’s eyes shot open, his muscles bunching as he stumbled to place himself in front of the civilians, but all he saw were Hancock and the Watchman. 

Hancock shrugged and gave him a wry smile that held only a hint of bitterness. “It happens.” 

By the time he made it to the infirmary, the adrenaline had faded and his heart was beating at something close to normal. He was hooked up to IVs and put to bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. It was soft and uncomfortable and the pillow forced his head into a strange position. He had seen the beds in Vault 81 before, but hadn’t had the chance to actually lie on one. He thought they looked almost pretty, with their shiny metal frames and neat blankets. Nothing at all like the thin pallets and straw bedding he was used to. Now that he was actually on one he could only wonder at how anyone managed to sleep on them. 

“We’re just getting some fluids in you and something to help bring down that fever,” Forsythe explained. “I’ll need to take a blood sample to isolate the strain as well.” 

Danse felt the pinch of a needle, but after a few minutes the edges around his vision grew fuzzy. Exhaustion was nothing new to him; he had slept almost constantly for the past few days when he wasn’t coughing or vomiting. But this was different. Curie was there with a smile on her face and a hand in his hair. “It’s alright, just rest.” 

Danse took her words as an order and closed his eyes.

* * *

Danse tapped his fingers against his arm from where they were crossed against his chest. Three days. It had been three days and Danse was, for all intents and purposes, cured. He still had a very slight fever, a lingering cough, and nausea that came and went. Nothing so serious that he should remain in bed, and yet the doctor had refused to give him leave. The only thing stopping him from disobeying was the threat that he might still be contagious. He refused to endanger any more lives on his behalf. 

There was a gaggle of voices and Danse could just see the tips of wild, ginger-colored hair through the observation window before Nat, Austin, and Erin walked through the infirmary’s door. 

“We were lucky we made it here at all,” Nat was saying. The other two were hanging on to her every word. “We had to pass under a hundred dead bodies, all strung up from the street lights and telephone poles like a butcher’s shop. If we made even a _single sound_ , the super mutants would have heard us and cut us up into pieces and hung _us_ from the street lights like all the others.” 

Danse’s memory was a little fuzzy from the fever, but he was certain he would have remembered _that_ in the three hours it took to reach the Vault from Diamond City. 

Austin turned his eyes toward Danse. “Nat says you’re married to Nate. Is it true? Are you Nate’s husband?” 

Danse stiffened at having a child who _wasn’t_ a squire address him directly. “No, we’re...” Danse felt awkward saying the word ‘lover’ around a kid. But how else could he describe his relationship with Nate? “We’re together. We’re not married.” And then, for some stupid reason, he added: “Not yet.” 

Austin beamed at him. “Nate saved my life!” 

Danse felt another swell of pride. Here too was evidence of Nate’s hard work. 

“Alright, kids, it’s time you stopped bothering my patient,” Dr. Forsythe stated as he came out of the laboratory. Nat shot Danse a grin and took off running, Austin and Erin at her heels, desperate to be involved in her games. “I hope you don’t mind,” Forsythe continued once they had gone. “But I need another blood sample.” 

“You’ve taken four vials already,” Danse answered with a frown. “I feel fine. What other tests could there possibly be?” 

“It’s just a precaution. The coughing is nothing to be alarmed about, but the fever and especially the vomiting is not normal. I need to be sure there is no other underlying condition.” 

Danse scowled but held out his arm for the other man. He only hoped there wasn’t something about his blood that made it obvious he wasn’t human.


	5. Chapter 5

“I think my life would go much more smoothly if I wasn’t so damned sentimental.” Nate had said one evening after a few too many beers. And he was sentimental. Nate carried his past with him on his back: Nora’s wedding ring pressed against his old world holotags, Shaun’s baby blanket wrapped around his waist like a sash, his sister’s school softball cap hiding shaggy hair tucked behind his ears. He pointed a finger at Danse. “I had no intention of ever joining the army. Not back then and not now.” 

“You obviously changed your mind.” 

Nate took another pull from his drink. “Hm. I had a plan. My time was up, I was graduating from college, which meant I was eligible for the draft. There was no point to the war anymore. There was nothing left to fight over – no oil, no resources, nothing – so why should I be shipped off to die alone in some foreign country? I had a couple of friends who fled to South America, but I thought I was so fucking smart. Nora. A real daddy’s girl, and daddy was rich. Daddy had his hand in every cookie jar. So, I thought, why not marry her? I’d be protected. The rich make the wars and the poor fight in them. I would be one of the rich.” 

Danse had built Nora up in his head to such an extent that to hear this was almost like being told Santa Claus didn’t exist. “You didn’t love her?” 

Nate laughed. “I fucking adored her. That was my problem. Dear old daddy... he hated me. Sat me down a few weeks before the wedding and handed me a plane ticket to Argentina. He told me that I had two choices: either I could leave then and never speak to Nora again or he would make sure his daughter was a widow before the year was out. I stayed and married her, and true to his word I was drafted and shipped to Alaska for it. Didn’t quite manage to die though, and he never forgave me for that.” Nate waved his empty bottle. “And now I’m back in, all because of my weakness for black-haired beauties. One of these days, I’m going to actually stick to one of my plans.” 

It took Danse an embarrassingly long time for him to realize that Nate was referring to him when he said that. 

* * *

Dr. Forsythe was hiding something from him. 

He and Curie spent days locked together in his office. They were observing him. The cameras in the corner of the room tracked his every movement. His first thought had been that he’d been found out, but even if that was true Danse didn’t think that would matter. Everyone in the vault knew that Curie was a synth herself. Still, the thought chewed at the edges of his mind, a twisted piece of paranoia that he couldn’t shake off. 

His second thought was that he had contracted something other than influenza. His lingering symptoms and the doctor’s continued insistence that he stay in the infirmary would certainly point in that direction. Something that wasn’t contagious since he was still allowed visitors. But why wouldn’t Curie tell him anything? She was communicative – often annoyingly so – and willing to explain every minor procedure and treatment. But now whenever Danse asked for an update, all she would say was that more tests needed to be run before they could determine anything conclusive. 

Curie’s uncharacteristic responses led Danse to a third option: experimentation. That was Curie’s original purpose in life, to experiment on human bodies for the advancement of science regardless of whether it was right or wrong. A synth would make a better guinea pig; just like a human, except for a soul. It’s not wrong because synths aren’t creatures worthy of life. They’re abominations. On some level, Danse knew he was being ridiculous, but then Curie was no longer the helpful Miss Nanny she had been. Everything she was had been poured into a synth brain, warping her. Danse didn’t trust his own head, let alone hers. 

A fourth option: nothing was real. Not the blanket under his fingertips, the cold sterility of the air conditioning on his sweaty skin, the lingering taste of stew on his lips. Nate. His memories were fake; if his synthetic brain could create an entire childhood for him then why not his current reality? He could be strapped down to a table on the _Prydwen_ while Senior Scribe Neriah cuts open his chest cavity, this little scene of Vault 81’s infirmary playing out in a loop in his head to keep him from feeling it. Maybe he never even left the Institute and was somewhere on his hands and knees scrubbing floors, an idiot look on his face while he dreamed about things he couldn’t have and didn’t deserve anyway. 

It occurred to Danse that if he wasn’t crazy, he was likely going to drive himself to it very soon. 

He couldn’t stay here any longer. He had to get out before these thoughts hounded him into doing something desperate. Danse threw off the blanket and searched for his boots. When he couldn’t find them he left anyway. He’d either find a trader to buy a new pair or he would come across a raider that he could loot. His skin itched with pent-up energy. 

He had only made it half way up the stairs before Curie was flying from Forsythe’s office to try and goad him back to the infirmary. “Monsieur Danse, you really should be in bed!” 

Danse shook off her hand. “I feel fine. I’ve felt fine for days. I see no reason why I must be forced to remain idle.” 

Curie reached out again. “There are tests--” 

At the word _test_ , Danse finally spun around to face her. “I don’t know what the nature of these tests are, or their purpose. You have told me nothing.” He loomed over her, standing almost half a foot taller than her. “I don’t trust you.” 

Curie nodded. “I am sorry. You are right. As the patient you have a right to know. But I fear what you might do when I tell you what Dr. Forsythe has discovered.” 

Danse shrank a little at that. “You think I’ll hurt you? Or someone else?” 

“No, I worry you will hurt yourself.” 

“I wouldn’t.” 

“Your entire body is covered in bruises,” she said before glancing down at his feet. “And you were about to walk out into the wasteland without your shoes. Will you please come with me back to Dr. Forsythe’s office so I can discuss my findings?” 

She tugged on his wrist and Danse went, subdued. Had Nate told her what had almost happened when he found him at Listening Post Bravo? How close he had gotten to eating his own gun? Did Nick know? Is that why he was always watching him? He wanted to explain. What he did at night in Diamond City wasn’t the same thing. He was a soldier. He wanted to be useful. 

Curie took him into Forsythe’s office and pulled out a folder from his desk, flipping it to reveal multiple scans of his insides. “Do you see this?” Curie pointed at the image. Danse could make out his stomach and intestines. Her finger was centered on something below that, where his bladder would be if he had to guess. “This shouldn’t be here.” 

“What is it?” 

“It’s a uterus.” 

Of all the things she could have said, that was something Danse would have never imagined. Ridiculous. Wasteful. He thought it might have been a bomb, or something that might be actually be useful, like a specially grown organ that could process radiation. “The Institute gave me two sets of reproductive organs,” Danse mused out loud. He was unable to keep himself from laughing. “Despite the fact that synths of both sexes are unable to reproduce.” 

“You can. You have.” 

It took a moment for her words to make sense. “What?” 

Curie shrugged helplessly. “You’re pregnant.”


	6. Chapter 6

The vast remnants of the United States were littered with Mr. Handys who swanned through life oblivious to the changes around them, still going through the motions of a by-gone era. They sang lullabies to skeletons and talked to ghosts. Before Danse found out about who -- _what_ \-- he really was, he had always assumed it was due to an error in their programming. Nobody had told them what to do in the event of an apocalypse, and so they defaulted to their standard settings, leaving them unable to acknowledge the devastation around them even if they were capable of understanding it. Now, though, Danse wondered if they were capable of such complex emotions as denial. Everything they were, the people they had loved, gone in an instant. Danse felt his own mind stuttering at the words Curie had uttered. Unable to compute. 

There was an abomination growing inside him. 

“Get it out,” he hissed. 

Curie held up her hands placatingly. “I can perform the operation necessary, but you must wait at least a week until your lungs have cleared and your body has recovered fully from the virus. Vault 81 has limited supplies and resources. Your immune system is still very weak, leaving you at risk for infection. If you contracted sepsis, there is very little I could do for you here or anywhere else.” 

“Is it Nate’s?” 

Curie cocked her head in confusion, like Dogmeat. “Who else could it be?” 

“It might not have a father,” Danse rambled, his hands spasming against the front of his shirt, twisting at the fabric that was bunched against his stomach. “It could be the result of... of asexual reproduction. What if I’m just some sort of... synth factory?” 

“Oh, you are referring to parthenogenesis! What a fascinating idea! I hadn’t thought of that!” Curie’s excitement ebbed in the face of Danse’s growing horror. “Or it could be just a normal baby.” 

Danse wasn’t sure which one was worse. If the fetus was purely synth, Danse would have no problem aborting it. It would be required of him, a moral obligation. But if it was Nate’s, if it was half-human... Did he have the right to make that choice? He wasn’t a person, he was a machine. A glorified incubator. “Is there any way to tell?” 

Curie shook her head. “I don’t have the equipment required to perform a paternity test in utero.” 

He would have to wait until the thing was cut from him to be sure, and if it was a synth, what then? Abortion was one thing, but a living, breathing child was another, regardless of its origins. What would Nate say? Would he want anything to do with it if it wasn’t his? 

Danse sat heavily in Dr. Forsythe’s chair. 

Curie was gentle in her movements as she approached him, like he was a rad rabbit ready to flee at any sudden movement. She sat in the chair next to him. “If you are worried about Nate, then don’t be. He will support you, whatever you decide,” she said decisively. “He loves you. And Nick has gone to... to speak with some friends about your condition. If there is information to be had, he will find it. It will all work out.” 

Danse ignored her, still wrapped up in his own thoughts, turning them over and over and over, his hands still wrapped around his midsection, worn cotton peeking out from between white knuckles. He wanted to tear into his flesh, but he settled for his shirt. He felt along the hard planes of his stomach and the tell-tale bumps of the scars that raced across his skin. There was an old one that bisected his abdomen, neat and precise compared to all the jagged ruins that littered the rest of his body. He had a hazy memory of getting his appendix removed as a child, but that occurred BC. Before Cutler. If Danse knew nothing else about his past, he knew that Cutler was real. Anything that happened to him before they met was suspect. 

“Can you show me the scans again?” He asked. 

“Of course!” Curie leapt up from the chair and raced to get the scans she had left lying on Dr. Forsythe’s desk. She came back and held them out to him. Danse flipped through them, but he only had vague ideas about what he was looking at. 

“Which shape is my appendix?” 

Curie smiled at him, like a proud teacher with a difficult student. “You don’t have an appendix.” Danse felt something loosen inside him at her words, some hidden fear that he had clutched tightly when she had first uttered those damning words. But then she said, “The Institute must consider them extraneous. Synths are made without them.” 

Danse said nothing for several long minutes. Then he stood up. “I’m tired.” 

“Oh, yes, rest is very important. I will walk you back to the infirmary.” 

“No, I think I will stay in Nate’s quarters.” 

Curie faltered. “Are you sure?” 

“Nate won’t mind.” 

“Of course not, that’s not what I meant--” 

But Danse was already climbing the stairs to the residential area, leaving Curie behind in his wake. So, it was a scar. A scar caused by a scalpel, inflicted before he had escaped from the Institute. It didn’t mean he had been pregnant before. The Institute was as bad as Vault-Tec; they could have subjected him to any number of experiments. 

But if he had been pregnant before... if he _had_ and if they had cut it from him... where was it now? And if it had a father, who was it? Another synth? An Institute scientist? 

Danse let the door close behind him and slid down its length, the metal cool against his back. He had only ever had sex with Nate. At least, the only sex he could remember had been with Nate. He had never dwelled on what might have happened in the Institute, what sort of life he had led within its confines. He didn’t like the idea that there might be potential lovers, or potential abusers, or potential _children_ still out there somewhere.


	7. Chapter 7

Magnolia’s voice filled the room. Nick slipped past the regulars, their backs turned to him, eyes riveted to the woman on stage. Only Whitechapel Charlie took any notice, one eye always swiveled towards him as he watched Nick enter the back room where his contact was waiting. The first thing Nick thought when he saw the woman was, _Dear God, was the Institute trying to breed a race of Amazons?_ She was the same height as Danse, right down to the centimeter. He looked at the line of muscle along her shoulders and arms as she threw back her drink; she could probably pull his head off and pop it like a mutfruit if she wanted to. 

Her green eyes flickered toward him and narrowed. “I only agreed to this because I was told 97 would be here.” 

“He’s sick.” Also, Nick had neglected to tell Danse anything about this meeting and, God willing, the former Paladin was still ignorant about his condition. Curie had never liked the idea of not telling him, but after watching Danse circle deeper and deeper into self-loathing for months, Nick was hesitant to throw more fuel onto that fire. He’d sent a messenger after Nate, telling him to get his ass back here. Danse would take it better if he heard the news from him. 

She barked out a laugh, deep, from the back of her throat. “I bet he is. I want to see him. I’m going to see him. He’s my partner.” 

“He doesn’t remember anything from the Institute. He won’t know you from Adam.” 

“That doesn’t matter,” she insisted. “We were made to be together.” 

Nick sat down next to her while she poured herself another drink. “What’s your name, kid?” 

“M7-87, but you can call me Jane.” 

“Want to tell me what happened?” 

Her eyes flickered and then she began reciting what sounded like something out of a pamphlet. “The M7 class was used for research into synthetic reproduction. Prior to advancements made to the synth fabricator, the creation of one single Gen 3 synth would cause power shortages. Giving us the ability to breed would save on power.” She swallowed her drink in two gulps and poured herself another one. From the way this story was going, he was wishing he could have one himself. “Half of the 10s and 20s were sterile. The scientists were still figuring out how to make viable eggs and sperm. Once they succeeded, those synths were discontinued. Next came the 30s and 40s. That was their showcase line. The ones they used to prove their work was successful. The 50s and the 70s were what I like to call the ‘designer brand.’ It was eugenics, plain and simple. One pair was super strong, another super smart, etc. etc. Whatever you could possibly want in a synth, all you had to do was mix ‘n match.” 

“And the 60s? You skipped them.” 

Jane laughed. “They were never made. I think the humans just didn’t want to name a fuck machine M7-69.” 

Nick waited a few minutes, but she didn’t say anything else. Just took another pull from her glass, her eyes dark and distant. “What about you and Danse?” 

She turned slowly to him, her features soft and fuzzy. “His name is Danse? That’s a nice name. I like that name.” She moved to sit straighter, scrambling to fit her mask back onto her face. “The official reasoning behind the creation of the 80s and 90s was to ‘increase production rates.’ Pregnancy is long and only half of the population is capable of getting pregnant. But if the other 50% could also carry and bear children? Then you could potentially double the amount of children yielded. That was what was put on all the fancy reports anyway. But the unofficial reason? The guy in charge, Dr. Gardiner, was a huge fucking pervert. If he wanted to create a population where each individual was capable of both impregnating and getting pregnant there are better ways to go about it. Instead, he neglected to give 97 a birth canal and gave me a dick right above my clit. Like, a dick’s just kind of a fancy clit anyway, why do I need both?” Jane waved her drink in Nick’s face. “Not that I’m complaining. Out of the two of us, I definitely got the better deal. But the point is, it's all aesthetics. It’s not functional. Dr. Gardiner didn’t give 97 a birth canal because he didn’t like the way it looked. He gave one to 91 and couldn’t beat off to it, which is why 91 was hardly ever used in demonstrations.” 

Nick was not capable of physiological reactions, but the part of him that remembered being _Nick Valentine_ still expected to feel his heart drop. “Demonstrations?” 

Jane abandoned her empty glass on the table and instead went straight for the bottle. “Yeah. Demonstrations. There was a room with a bed and stirrups and a one-way mirror. If one of us was pregnant, that’s where we would give birth. But mostly they’d just have us fuck in there while someone watched from behind the glass. Sometimes it was Gardiner, sometimes it was another human who wanted to see the show. 97 was my partner. That’s how it went. 86 and 96, 87 and 97, 88 and 98. But sometimes Gardiner would send us in with someone else. I hated that. He liked watching me with 54. 54 was one of the designer models, and she was made to be beautiful. That was it. If you wanted a pretty synth, you’d get her knocked up. She was delicate compared to me, with tits bigger than my head. His voice would come over the intercom and he’d say shit like, ‘Put her on her back, it’s good for conception. Spread her legs wider, it’s good for conception. Now flip her over and take her from behind, changing positions helps stimulate the blah blah blah.’ 97 got 99 a lot. Everyone got paired with 99 at least once. I mean, I know big dicks are like a whole _thing_ with humans but eleven inches is ridiculous. One time, 97 went in with both 75 _and_ 99 which is _stupid_ and I have no idea how Gardiner managed to get it approved because as far as I know 97 can’t get knocked up from a dick in his throat.” 

Jane leaned forward and pointed her finger at him, her words slurring. “And then he told 97 to prepare for a demonstration, only this time he went in alone. He wouldn’t tell me what happened. And then he got pregnant and the report listed me as the father and I knew I _wasn’t_. They cut the baby out and did a paternity test and do you know who it said the father was? Fucking Gardiner. That was the last straw. Father shut the whole thing down. He never liked the idea of synths being able to create their own sustainable population. If a synth is born from a womb, how is it a synth? Could you enslave a child that had at least one human parent? And, anyway, improvements were made to the synth fabricator and raising children as a new generation of synths wasn’t viable. Too much time and effort, plus they took resources away from the human children. Gardiner disappeared and we learned that the M7s were to be discontinued.” 

“Discontinued?” 

“Terminated. A mind wipe wouldn’t change our physiology, so they decided to scrap us altogether. 97 and I made a run for it. We got separated. I thought he died somewhere out there in the Wasteland, alone. I had no idea he found the Railroad. I didn’t learn about them myself until last year when I nearly got done in by a courser. I knew posing for those pictures was a bad idea. My genitals were hand-crafted; they’re more distinguishable than a fingerprint.” 

Nick shifted in his seat. “And the children?” 

Jane blinked owlishly at him. “What children?” 

“The children the Institute had you create.” 

“I already told you. The M7 class was discontinued. _All_ M7 units were to be terminated and incinerated.”

* * *

87 and 97 were stripped and in position. 97 was squinting up at the ceiling, the bright lights making it hard for him to see. 87 stared down at him, stroking herself in an effort to keep hard. Her other hand drifted over his thigh, pinching lightly at his skin. He looked at her, brow furrowing in that way it always did when he scolded her. She crossed her eyes at him and he bit his lip to keep from laughing, giving his head a little shake as if to say, _Stop that right now, M7-87._ Full designation and everything. 

A strangled voice came over the intercom. “You can begin now.” 

97 didn’t look away this time when 87 pushed in. He kept his eyes trained on her. Because she wanted him to and that was reason enough for him. 87 lifted his leg higher, for the cameras. They knew how to move to get the angles Gardiner wanted from them. She didn’t bother starting off slow. The good doctor already sounded half-gone. He’d want it quick and hard and that was just how 87 gave it to 97. 

She wondered what it would be like to lean down and kiss him.


End file.
